The Lucky Vintage
by Era-Age
Summary: There was a reason she was attracted to the winery: the skins of the grapes crushing and spurting out their red juices, the heady, intoxicating smell of fermenting wine, the different shades of Tamika's finest red vintages- that buffoon and lecher, Sir Lazare Milvan.
1. Chapter One: Tamika's Winery

**Chapter One: Tamika's Winery**

* * *

"Where are the sweet wines?"

"Back shelf, all the way to the left."

"And the dry ones?"

"Back shelf, on the right."

"What about the red specialties?"

Ismene blew a stray strand of hair from her face and continued turning the crank on the grape crusher. "Every shelf is labeled, Nigidius."

"Ah—right. Of course. Sorry, Miss Fiore. I'm still trying to learn the ropes around here."

When that same piece of hair dangled in her face again, she stopped her work and tucked it into her kerchief. "It's alright, Nigidius. It's only your first week here." She leaned back to offer the older man a smile, but jumped and cringed when she heard a thud and wine bottles clink together. "Is everything—"

"Yes, yes!" Nigidius said. She heard him chuckle and add, "Just a clumsy moment, is all, Miss Fiore." He carried a crate of wine back to his workbench across from Ismene's. "Now just to put the proper labels on them."

"If you need help," Bernadette Peneles said from beside Ismene, "just ask. We're more than happy to." Her fingers plucked grapes from their stems and fed them into the crusher as Ismene operated the lever.

Nigidius chuckled again and set to work. "Oh, old Nigidius may need some help time and again, but this former beggar has a mind to please Miss Tamika with his work." Bernadette and Ismene shared a smile and rolled their eyes as he continued, "Mmhm. You ladies work so hard to deliver wine to all of Cyrodiil. I feel honored to be part of the workforce, now."

"Well, it might not be a workforce for long, Nigidius," Bernadette said.

The old man raised a white brow at this and held his paintbrush away from the wine bottles. "What do you mean?"

"Davide Surilie's been whispering sweet nothings to Tamika again," Ismene said.

"He's quite the charmer," Bernadette said with a small smile. "But he's a threat to the business. Imagine! What if Tamika decides to merge with him?" Nigidius hid a smirk in his shoulder, but his quaking shoulders gave him away. Bernadette clicked her tongue and threw a rag at him. "Oh, you potty-brained old coot! You know what I meant!" A blush graced her sun-reddened cheeks.

"At least it's not Gaston wooing her," Ismene said. "Hooded men make me uneasy. There must be a reason he wears it."

"They're nice people," Bernadette said with a bob of her head, "but business is business. I can't think of not working at a winery—especially a winery that isn't Tamika's." She crushed a grape in her hand and frowned. "Those cursed brothers and their sweet, froo-froo Breton wine."

"Aren't you a Breton?"

"I am, Nigidius, but _I _have taste."

Ismene lifted her head toward the ceiling when she heard the sound of rushed footsteps above her. Beyond the dimmed sounds of the patrons upstairs, she heard the unmistakable voice of Tamika's accountant. "Take your frustrations out on the grape crusher, Bernie." The woman needed no more of an invitation before she turned the lever with enough vigor for an army. "I believe that's Timothée with the report."

The trapdoor fell open just as the last syllable left her mouth, and Timothée, a young lad barely old enough to be considered a man with a knack for numbers, clambered down the wooden stairs waving a rolled up piece of parchment in his hand. "It's in, it's in!"

Bernadette and Nigidius motioned the boy to continue while Ismene held his shoulders to keep him from bouncing up and down and crashing into something. "Well? What are the results? Did we beat them?"

Timothée took in a deep breath and unraveled the parchment. "According to my calculations—and they are _never _wrong—Tamika's West Weald Wine sold 433 bottles in Morning Star, 279 in Sun's Dawn, 237 in First Seed, 383 in Rain's Hand, 203 in Second Seed, _954 _in Midyear—a record, might I add, but that's no surprise given all of the holidays—484 in Sun's Height, and approximately 400 in Last Seed. Since the month has just ended, I'll need about another week to calculate the precise number we sold.

"This tallies up to 3,373 bottles sold in eight out of the twelve months. Out of these bottles, eighty-three percent of them were dry, red wines. From what I heard, Surilie only sold 2,995 bottles, and of those, seventy-four percent were their sweet white wines. Ladies and gentleman, we have sold approximately twelve percent more bottles than Surilie!"

Bernadette's mouth hung open, and she blinked at the news. "But we've never gone higher than eight percent!"

Timothée's lips turned up in a wide grin, and he squirmed out of Ismene's grasp. "Exactly! I think opening up the restaurant upstairs put us ahead of Surilie. No doubt they'll try to copy us, now."

Bernadette balled her hands into fists and started cranking the lever again. "Copy us, will they? _Ho ho, _not on my watch. Not while I'm crushing the grapes."

"Tamika will have some wine brought down for you when your shifts are over," Timothée said. Nigidius hummed and licked his lips while Ismene widened her eyes. "But you still have work to do, which reminds me. Ismene," he said, turning his attention to her, "customers are pouring in, what with the day being over for them. Fagus is having trouble keeping up with the orders. Could you help out?"

Ismene turned to look back at Bernadette, and when she saw no sign of her friend relinquishing the crusher, she nodded. "Of course."

* * *

"I don't think I'll ever be cut out for the evenings," Fagus said as Ismene handed him clay goblets. "Mornings are fine; hardly anyone shows up here! But once the sun starts to set... Divines, how do you do it?"

She smiled and ushered him off to a table with the goblets. "It'll grow on you." It was a quaint restaurant—quaint but tidy. After a hard day of labor, it was a lounge and meeting spot for Skingrad's workers. She returned smiles to familiar faces and frowned when she saw two of the Surilie brothers' workers huddled in a corner, tasting various bottles of wines. She snorted when they started fussing and arguing over the tastes. No doubt they were befuddled as to why Tamika's vintages had such a surplus in profits. She swept her gaze to the other side of the room.

Two gentleman, one finely dressed while the other hid inside a cloak and hood, sat at a table away from the center of the restaurant. The table was angled just right so that whoever sat there could have a view of the entire room. Usually Tamika would sit there with Bernadette while pretending to take a break when they were really gauging their customers' reactions toward the wine.

One of the men raised his hand and signaled Ismene to their table. She glanced over at Fagus, who was busy serving two other tables, and then at Tamika, who stood behind the counter engaged in a lively conversation with several customers. _They probably want to know what her 'secret recipe' is, _Ismene thought with a wry smile. _It's all in the grapes._

When she heard one of them clear their throats, she hurried over to their table and offered a smile to each of them. "Welcome to Tamika's Winery, the only place in all of Cyrodiil to serve Tamika's finest," she said. By the Nine, she wasn't sure how many times she had recited that phrase already since the restaurant opened. "Have you browsed our selections, good sirs?" She tried to peer beneath the hood one of the men wore, but he blocked her attempts by angling his face away from her.

The two men glanced at each other before one of them—the one not wearing a hood—leaned back in his seat and stared at the menu. "We have," he said, glancing at his companion again. The other man cleared his throat and looked away.

Ismene schooled herself to keep from sounding impolite. The last thing she wanted was to chase customers away into Surilie territory. She could feel the Surilie workers glaring daggers at her. "What wine would you like to purchase? May I suggest one of the dry wines? Customers are never disappointed by—"

"I find myself... indecisive this evening," the man said. He tapped a gloved finger against the menu and looked up at Ismene, offering her a smile that was both charming and dangerously disarming.

Her mouth twitched as she said, "Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

"Perhaps you can," he said, dropping his voice an octave. Her instincts were to take a step back and give him a glower that would have frozen Lake Rumare, and when he only seemed amused by her, she felt her hackles rise. "I'm looking for a specific sort of wine, one that is not found on every day shelves."

"Tamika's vintages are known for satisfying peculiar tastes, sir."

"Are they," he said, giving her another dangerous smile that showed no teeth. "Then tell me: what wine would you suggest I taste on a perfect, cloudless midnight, cold as winter ice and shrouded in shadow?" His companion chuckled quietly, and Ismene narrowed her eyes at the two men, not impressed in the least. The satisfied look the finely dressed Imperial gave her only made her blood boil more.

Ismene paused for a moment before uttering a strained laugh. "Perfect, cloudless midnight?" She looked over her shoulder to Tamika, hoping to catch the woman's eye, but she would have no such luck. She turned back to the two customers and did her best to grin.

"Perhaps such a request is beyond your comprehension."

She adopted an expression fit for a gambler, feeling her patience wearing thin. "O-of course. Just a moment." She stalked back into the basement where Bernadette was still crushing grapes with the ferocity of a minotaur. Ismene slammed the trapdoor shut, making Nigidius leap out of his seat.

"Is it that bad?" the former beggar asked.

Ismene snorted and threw her hands in the air. "Bernie, answer this for me: what wine do you drink on a perfect, cloudless... oh, whatever that tyrant upstairs said."

"Someone giving you a hard time? It isn't that _lizard _again, is it?" Bernadette asked.

"Lazare hasn't made an appearance yet, but I'm sure he will. It's only a matter of time."

"Give them this," Nigidius said with a cackle that reeked of conspiracy. He handed a bottle to Ismene. "If they want to mouth off to you, this will give them a reason to pucker."

"If only there was poison laced in the recipe," Ismene muttered to herself as she climbed back up the trapdoor. She felt her frustration reach its peak when the two rude customers were nowhere in sight. She blew out of her mouth and had half a mind to rip out what was left of her short hair when that same piece fell on her brow.

To add to Ismene's merry night, Lazare Milvan chose that moment to step into the restaurant. He turned his nose up at the customers, giving them disgusted and disapproving sneers. As usual, his hair was combed and greased back so that not a strand was out of place, and his clothes were freshly pressed and without a single crease.

Ismene bit her lip to keep from gagging at the way he held his hand to his chest in apparent utter revulsion of the tables. He approached the table that the two tyrannical patrons had occupied and gave it a long, reprimanding grimace. He made a _hmph _from the back of his throat. He turned his head and wore the most victorious, toothy grin she'd ever seen once he spotted her.

"Well, if it isn't the lowly-birthed Miss Ismene Fiore," he drawled, eying her up and down. She crossed her arms and blinked at him. "Do be a dear and clean this table up. I fear it is not fit for Sir Lazare Milvan. I _am _nobility after all, you know."

She met Tamika's eye, and the Redguard woman pointedly looked between her and Lazare. Flaring her nostrils, Ismene set Nigidius's wine down and swiped a rag from the counter. When he still wasn't satisfied with her cleaning the table, she cleaned one of the chairs for him.

"Much better," he said. He glanced at the chair, and praying to the gods for patience, Ismene pulled out the chair for him. He slid into it and gave the menu a brief look-over. "I trust you remember my usual, no?"

"We sold out an hour ago," she bit out.

"Oh?" He furrowed his brow, but his expression smoothed over into an arrogant one. "My, my, Ismene dear. You seem quite rattled today. What could a peasant like you be concerned with?" He sniffed and raised his chin in the air. "You lower class filth wouldn't know the meanings of 'concern' or 'worry.' Why, it's such trivial hassles for astounding individuals, such as myself, to fret day and night over the welfare of the province."

"May I bring you something else?"

"You peasants have little to no need in the provinces! But of course," he said in a quieter voice, leaning toward Ismene and running his knuckles down her arm, "there is always _some _use a peasant wench has, is there not, my little flower?"

"I am _not _your 'little flower.'" Ismene raised her hand to smack his manicured one off of her person, but a stern glare from Tamika changed her course of action into simply plucking his hand away. She made sure to pinch his skin tight enough to leave a mark.

"Pardon me," Nigidius said as he joined them. He put a glass down on the table and carefully poured Lazare wine. The peacock was too busy making sure Nigidius didn't spill a single drop of wine to see the wink he shot Ismene. "Please enjoy your tasting, sir," Nigidius murmured before hurrying away.

"Oh, indeed I will," Lazare said, keeping his eyes on Ismene. He made a show of licking his lips before taking a generous gulp from the wine. Ismene covered her mouth with her hand when Lazare's face blanched and nearly turned blue. But like the proper gentleman he was, he repressed the urge to spit the wine out. But also like the spoiled noble blood he inherited, he stood from the table in a huff and glared murder at Ismene, for how could _anyone _think to offer an astounded individual, such as himself, such putrid, disgusting wine!

"Was it not to your liking, Sir Lazare?"

"Not to my—! I'm willing to bet every septim I have to my name that horse piss tastes better than that!"

"Oh dear, it must not have finished fermenting yet," Ismene said with mock surprise. "Oh, gods above! Strike me—" She gasped as Lazare curled his fingers against her wrist in a grip that threatened to break bone. He pulled her toward himself and only tightened his grasp.

"You are talking," he whispered so only she would hear. "You will stop."

"And you will stop before I decide to never allow you to eat one of my sweetrolls again!" Skingrad's resident baker, Salmo, said from his table. "Or, maybe I _will _let you eat my delicious treats. But I promise you, you will find a _nasty _surprise in them if you do not unhand her this instant!"

Sir Lazare uncurled his fingers from Ismene's wrist, and with a quick sweep of his hand over his styled hair—for he would be damned if a single piece had fallen out of place—he took his leave of Tamika's winery. Ismene sighed once he left and sank into the chair. When she realized that Sir Lazare Milvan's bottom had recently inhabited it, she hurried over to the other chair at the table. Salmo joined her, and she offered the Altmer a smile. "Not only are you a baker, Salmo, but you are also a hero."

He chuckled, "It is my pleasure to help a friend in need. I daresay all of Skingrad has grown tired of Lazare's arrogant demeanor. Someone should bring the matter to the Count."

"If only the Count would see his people," Ismene sighed. "But thank you, Salmo. I don't think I could have gone another moment longer without striking him. Divines, it would have been terrible for business."

"I am still young for an Altmer, but patience takes years to fully master, my dear. But pah, I did not come here to lecture or dampen your spirits. Here." He produced a wrapped bundle and slid it toward her. "They came out of the oven just before I arrived," he said. "I know you like the ones with icing."

Ismene's eyebrows rose, and she accepted the package. "You never forget an order, do you, Salmo?"

"I never forget what friends prefer," he corrected with a smile. "Besides, I only find it fitting since I receive free wine in return." He picked up Lazare's discarded goblet and gave it a sniff. His nose turned up, and he added, "As long as it isn't _this _wine. Oh, what am I saying? It can't be that bad." He took a sip from the goblet, and Ismene wasn't sure how many shades whiter he turned. He smacked his lips together and placed the goblet back on the table, making sure it was out of his reach.

"That bad?" she asked.

"Incredibly terrible," he said with a scowl. "Just _awful."_

* * *

**A/N:**

**I'm aware that Oblivion fanfics are beyond their prime, but this idea has been in my head for a while now, and I can't help it. That, and I love Lucien Lachance and the Dark Brotherhood.**


	2. Chapter Two: Rags and Riches

**Chapter Two: Rags and Riches**

* * *

"A toast," Tamika said, raising her goblet of wine, "to our healthy profits and good fortune." Her workers murmured in agreement and clinked their goblets together. "I know today was stressful." She glanced at Ismene. "But our shifts are over and the restaurant is closed for the night. The evening's yours, my friends."

Nigidius smiled and took a sip from his wine. "I wouldn't have known such kindness if you had never taken me in, Miss Tamika."

Tamika chuckled and pat the man on the shoulder. "I have an eye for talent, Nigidius, and I know how to respect and reward good work." She excused herself from the table to join Ismene at the counter. Bernadette, Nigidius, Timothée, and Fagus paid their boss no mind as they laughed and enjoyed their drinks. "Your shift's over, Ismene."

Ismene smiled and continued drying goblets. "I've never been good at relaxing, Tamika."

"So I've noticed," the Redguard said with a hint of disapproval. "I saw what happened with you and Sir Lazare today." When Ismene ducked her head, she continued, "If you two are going to start conflicts, you'll either be permanently assigned to the basement or Fagus will have to take his orders."

"I notice how Lazare receives no punishment for his rude behavior," Ismene said with a bitter tone.

"Sir Lazare Milvan is not my employee, and you know what they say."

"The customer is always right," Ismene sighed. "One day that lizard will get what's coming to him, mark my words."

"And until then, I expect you to be a cordial, pleasant waitress. We don't need those Surilie brothers creeping up on us in profits."

"I understand, Tamika," Ismene said.

Tamika smiled and nodded her head. "Good. Now help yourself to some wine; Divines know you've earned it."

* * *

"I'll never thank you enough for walking me home every night," Bernadette said as she and Ismene waved their goodbyes to their coworkers. Skingrad's nights were moderate, but even its favorable climate tended to be a bit chilly. The two women wrapped their cloaks tighter about themselves. "But you know, Ismene, my home is just a short walk from the winery."

Ismene smiled at her friend. "I know that, Bernie. It just isn't safe for a woman to be walking alone at night. Even with the guard patrols, anything can happen."

"But you have to walk alone after I'm safe in my house," Bernadette said.

Ismene shrugged and chuckled. "You have a point there."

"I suppose you could always roast any potential attackers alive," Bernadette mused with a small smile. "After all, you _are _a mage with formidable power, aren't you?"

Ismene tugged on her kerchief and bit her lip. While she knew some spells, she was hardly qualified to be considered dangerous. What spells she did know were learned from discarded tomes the Mages Guild deemed 'outdated.' Since the branch in Skingrad was particularly focused in the arts of Destruction magicka, she'd learned one or two things about casting fire and lightning. But these skills were not practical or necessary in her life and mostly went unfurbished.

Ismene had considered gaining access to the Mages Guild multiple times, but she could never find it in her heart to leave the winery for good. That, and with her wages, she was sure she could not afford the life of a mage.

"Thank you again," Bernadette said as they arrived at her doorstep. The Breton woman smiled and squeezed her friend's hands. "And don't worry about that Sir Lazare Milvan. I'm sure his ego's so wounded that he'll coop himself up in his fancy mansion for a few days."

"He probably thinks Skingrad will suffer without His Majesty gracing us with his presence," Ismene snorted. Bernadette rolled her eyes, but laughed nonetheless. A sudden scuttling sound drew the women's attention to farther down the street. "Is that...?"

"Glarthir?" Bernadette sighed. "I'm afraid so." The skittish Bosmer hurried off once he realized they noticed him. "He's a sweet fellow, I think. He's just so... _strange. _He acts as if the whole city's out for him."

"I've heard his paranoia's escalating. He isn't giving you any trouble, is he?"

Bernadette crossed her arms and shifted her weight. "Well, I can't help but feel that he's watching me. I mean, you saw what I just saw right now! Even worse, he's my neighbor. Sometimes I see him staring at me from his window. Whenever I wave to him, he acts as if he doesn't even see me."

Ismene glanced across the cobbled street to Glarthir's property. The jumpy little elf had gone so far as to bar his windows. "I don't know, Bernie..."

"What? You haven't heard anything about him, have you?" Bernadette stared at Ismene with a pleading yet hopeful face. She wished more than anything that nothing was out of the ordinary concerning Glarthir, but Ismene's next words made her expression fall.

"I've heard he keeps a little notebook on him at all times. He's constantly writing in it. I don't know what he's writing, but I don't like it. Do me a favor, Bernie?"

"Hm?"

"Either stay at your house tomorrow or stay in the winery. Tomorrow I work the night shift, so I won't be in until then. And if you have to go somewhere, please ask Nigidius or Fagus to go with you."

"You really think it's that serious?" Bernadette wrung her wrists and furrowed her brow. "He's probably just a little loose in the mind and not at all violent—"

"Please, Bernadette."

"Alright," she sighed. "But you promise me you'll head straight to the inn, you hear me? Now you have me all jumpy and nervous. No gazing at Rosethorn Hall tonight, hm?"

"Fine," Ismene said. "Not like I'll be able to afford it any time soon, anyway. Goodnight, Bernie."

"You too, Ismene."

* * *

Mog gra-Mogakh clicked her tongue when Ismene dragged herself into the Two Sisters Lodge. "Well, I'll be a white Orc," the proprietress said, shaking her head at Ismene's weary face, "but you look like you've been hit with a door."

"Thank you for the observation, Mog," Ismene grumbled as she plopped herself down in her usual seat beside the fire.

"Don't tell me: it was Sir Lazare again, wasn't it?" When Ismene muttered several choice words beneath her breath, Mog placed her strong hands on her even stronger hips. "I don't know why you don't just sock it to him already. I know that if he ever decided to put one toe in my inn, he'd have a permanently rearranged face."

"Rearranging his face will only help his appearance, Mog."

The Orc laughed, a deep and rumbling sound that made Ismene smile. "You may be onto something there. Say, are you in the mood for some tea? I know your taste buds are probably dysfunctional, what with you drinking all that wine every day, but this is the good stuff."

Ismene looked over her shoulder and eyed the the kettle Mog held. "Is that the tea from Orsinium?"

"The very same," Mog beamed with a proud, toothy grin. "I know how much you like the stuff." Ismene shuffled to the counter and helped herself to a mug. "Sometimes I think you're more Orsimer than me. It takes a strong belly to handle this."

Ismene hummed and dug in her coin purse, but Mog cleared her throat and huffed. Ismene slouched her shoulders. "But, Mog—"

"No 'but's about anything, missy. You pay your tab, you're a good customer, and you don't cause me any trouble around here. There's no need to pay me for a little tea. Besides, I have to get rid of it somehow." She let loose another rumbling chortle and busied herself with wiping down the tables. Ismene excused herself and headed toward her room, bringing the mug of tea with her. She made a habit out of keeping a diary and writing in it every night before bed, and that night, she had a few more rants to add to her list regarding Sir Lazare Milvan.

* * *

The following morning...

"My dear, you are not supposed to _pummel _the dough. Merely _knead _it and form it into a lump."

Ismene blew a strand of hair out of her face and threw the ball of dough onto the counter, just as Salmo had demonstrated. Her dough only deflated further. "I _am _kneading the dough."

Salmo clicked his tongue and shooed her away from the counter. "Like this, my dear." He balled the dough up in his hands, formed it this way and that, and then plopped it onto the wooden board. He beamed and puffed his chest out when the dough was perfectly intact. "And now, we shape it." He started pressing his fingertips to the edges of the dough and forming it into a ball.

Ismene shook her head and took a handful of dough out of the mixing bowl. "Kneading the dough," she said beneath her breath as she tried once more.

Salmo sighed and gave her dough a look of pity. "May I inquire as to why you are squishing the poor thing with your elbow?"

"I'm venting," she said.

"Ah," Salmo breathed out. "Well, as satisfying as destroying my dough is, I'm afraid it is _not _Sir Lazare Milvan."

"I have a _very _good imagination, Salmo." She poked her fingers in the dough and gave it two eyes as well as a frown. "I am Sir Lazare Milvan," she mocked in a voice disturbingly similar to the noble man's. "I think I rule the world! I keep my hair nice and tidy and bathe in thirteen different types of perfume! I'm a walking ball of fumes!"

"Alright, alright—"

"I keep my nose held so high that if it rained, I would drown! Why, my nose is so high that people can look up my nostrils and see my nonexistent, perfectly plucked nose hairs!"

"Fiore, dear—"

"And with my _noble _attitude, I make people want to hurt something! In fact, I make people want to hurt ME!" With a roar, she slammed her hand into the dough, sending flour and dough sailing through the air. A _hiss! _made Salmo gasp and hurry around the counter.

"Oh, Mittens! Ismene, you've frightened her!" He knelt and scooped up Skingrad's neighborhood cat. "And look! You've covered her in flour! She's a grey kitty, not a white one!" Salmo stood and rubbed the cat's neck, cooing to the hissing bundle and trying to calm her nerves.

Ismene hunched her shoulders and sported a sheepish look. "Sorry, Mittens." Mittens glared at her and hissed again. "I-I'll clean up this mess."

"No," Salmo sighed, "just get you gone, Ismene. I'll take care of it."

She untied her apron and hung it on its peg. She tried to pet Mittens, but the cat swiped at her with its claws. Ismene cringed and sucked the cut on her hand. "I'll see you at the winery tonight, then?"

"Yes, yes," Salmo said, ushering her toward the door. "Try not to get in trouble before then, dear. Now, out with you."

Ismene let herself out of the baker's house and let out a gasp when she collided with a short figure. The person cursed and stuttered as they dropped whatever they were carrying. Ismene blinked and offered a smile at the person once she recognized them. "Oh, Glarthir. Hello." Glarthir opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. His entire frame trembled, and his beady eyes darted to the notebook lying at Ismene's feet. She picked up the notebook and frowned when the Bosmer looked close to jumping out of his own skin. "I believe this is yours," she said, handing it out to him.

He snatched it from her and clutched it to his chest. "Y-yes." He stared at her in anticipation, as if she was about to attack him.

She scratched her temple, smudging flour on her face, and forced a smile. "Yes. Well. Have a good day, Glarthir."

"Just leave me alone!" the Wood Elf spat at her, quickly turning on his heel and scurrying away.

She narrowed her eyes at his retreating form before rolling her eyes. "Crazy Bosmer," she murmured. She glanced at her feet when a streak of grey caught her eye. She smiled at Mittens and reached out to pet the cat. This time, she let her. "You're not _really _angry at me, are you, girl?" Mittens meowed and rubbed her side against Ismene's leg. "I thought so, kitty." Ismene tilted her head to the side when she noticed a folded up piece of paper at the cat's feet. The parchment was folded into a neat square, and Ismene idly scratched Mittens while she unfolded it. "This must have slipped from Glarthir's journal," she mused aloud.

_Bernadette Peneles_

_Toutius Sextius_

_Davide Surilie_

Ismene, not making any sense of the note, looked at Mittens. The cat blinked its wide eyes at her. "Huh. What a funny fellow, that Glarthir. Come on, kitty. Let's see if Mog has some leftover cream for you."

* * *

"Ismene," Bernadette said as she clambered down the trapdoor into the winery's underbelly, "he keeps _staring _at me. And he has that blasted notebook with him, too. Oh, I don't like this." Bernadette wrapped her arms around herself and hung her head. "Could we trade duties tonight?"

Ismene paused turning the crank on the grape crusher. She considered telling her friend about Glarthir's note, but thought better of it. Bernadette was already spooked by the elf's abnormal behavior, and to have even an iota of evidence that the elf was keeping tabs on her would only upset her further. "Did he say anything to you?"

"Well, no," Bernadette said. "But he doesn't even want any wine! He's just sitting there, staring!" She bit her lip and clasped her hands together. "Oh, please, Ismene. If Tamika has a problem with it, just blame me. I can't work knowing that man's eyes are all over me!"

Ismene relented with a sigh and had to twist and squirm out of Bernadette's delighted embrace. She dusted her skirt off and climbed up the trapdoor. "Oh, good," Fagus said. "I was beginning to panic."

"We're sampling the Labican tonight," Ismene said. When Fagus slouched his shoulders, she smiled and said, "Don't worry. You just carry the goblets, and I'll pour the samples."

He wiped an imaginary bead of sweat from his brow and exhaled. "Phew. Alright, then. This should go well."

The Labican was an easy to taste, enjoyable wine, as the patrons said. It was light and thought of as almost too casual for formal parties, but for the commoners of Skingrad, it was a delight.

"He sure is odd," Fagus commented when he and Ismene picked out another bottle of Labican from the shelf. "He's staring at his wine as if it's poison."

"As long as he isn't causing the other customers problems, we can't do anything about him," Ismene said. "Unfortunately."

"Speaking of problems," Fagus murmured. He nudged her with his elbow and nodded toward the door. "This is a surprise." Ismene turned around and blinked as Davide Surilie stood by the door. He glanced around the restaurant, smiling to the fellow patrons, and made his way toward the counter. Ismene didn't miss the way Glarthir shrank in his seat and started writing furiously in his notebook again.

"Davide," Tamika said with a smile. Regardless of her friendly face, Ismene could hear the suspicion in her voice. "What brings a Surilie brother to Tamika's winery?"

"Ah, Tamika," he said with a bow. "My brother and I heard about your sampling tonight, and, well, we could not resist. After all, we are both vintners, are we not? Wine is to be celebrated and enjoyed, no?"

"Of course," Tamika said, sparing a glance at Ismene who had a bottle of the Labican. "Please, have a seat."

"I have a bad feeling about this," Fagus whimpered.

"Just don't shake the goblet," Ismene whispered back as they walked toward Davide Surilie's table.

"Labican?" Davide asked, raising a brow at the bottle. "Interesting. My brother and I have just finished fermenting the Roussanne."

"Oh?" Ismene asked, not taking her eyes off of the goblet as she poured the wine. Fagus's hand was beginning to sweat.

"Oh, _oui. _It is a unique wine, if I say so myself. Almost tastes like a pear, but there is a distinct walnut flavor to it as well. Gaston and I were planning to have the sampling tonight, but we decided to have sport, you see, and rescheduled it to next week." He looked expectantly at her.

"Hm." She avoided meeting his eyes, but could see the sneer on his face from her peripherals.

"I hope that this Labican more than makes up for our little dilemma," Davide said.

"Er, Ismene," Fagus mumbled.

"It is a hassle arranging these events, anyway," Davide added with a wave of his hand. The gesture reminded her of another man, one that she took her frustrations out on a lump of dough earlier that day.

"Ismene," Fagus squeaked.

"Huh?" She looked up at her coworker just as the wine spilled over the lip of the goblet and dribbled onto Davide's clothes. She blushed scarlet and uttered a rushed apology to the Surilie brother.

"Oh, Davide," Tamika said, honing in on the table. "I'm terribly sorry! She's had a long day, and—"

"Please," Davide said with a chuckle. "Do not worry yourself about it. It happens all the time." Ismene narrowed her eyes at him and took a step back when Fagus began cleaning the spill. Tamika gave her a disappointed frown, but her expression smoothed over as Davide took a sip from the wine.

He licked his lips and took another sip. "It is... tasty," he said. Tamika bit her lip. "Simple, but tasty. It is something to be had in quaint places, such as this one. I think it complements your restaurant well, Tamika."

"I'm glad you enjoy it, Davide," Tamika said.

"But as tasty as it is," he said, putting his goblet back down, "I am afraid it is not for me. I prefer richer wines."

* * *

"'I prefer richer wines,'" Ismene sneered as she and Bernadette swept the tables down. "You should have seen his face, all smug and... _smug_. Why do rich men think they have the right to be so _rude? _I can't tolerate suave, arrogant clods like that._"_

"You know," Fagus said to them, "they say Bretons can taste every ingredient in wine."

"So if I rubbed the bottle against my crack, Surilie would have tasted it?" Nigidius sneered. Fagus snorted. "Probably would have liked the taste," Nigidius guffawed. "After all, it certainly would have been a strong flavor. _Woo-wee!"_

"He is a Breton of privilege, Ismene," Bernadette sighed, ignoring the two men. "If you think _he's _bad, you'd do well to avoid High Rock. Oh, I can't _stand _the family get-togethers."

Ismene tucked a lock of hair back into her kerchief. "All men are the same," she muttered. "Peacocks, the lot of them."

Nigidius and Fagus frowned and wore hurt expressions.

"Except you two," Ismene said. They smiled and continued cleaning goblets. "Just who do those buffoons think they are? Oh, sure, they have septims and weight to their names, but how does that make them gods to strut themselves around?"

Bernadette shrugged. "I don't—_oh, _Ismene, could you...?" She pointed at the table Glarthir sat at and gave it a wide berth. Ismene jutted a hip out. "Please, Ismene? I don't want to touch that table."

"Fine," she pouted. "But you owe me, Bernie."

"Don't worry," her friend said, "I'll think of something."

"Maybe you can turn Lazare into a toad," Nigidius cackled. "Then Miss Fiore would forever be in _your _debt."

"Or she can rub _him _against your crack, old man," Ismene said back with a chuckle. She ducked just in time as he threw a wet rag at her and squeaked when Fagus joined in on the assault. Soon the restaurant turned into a battlefield, the men and women taking cover on opposite sides of the room as they threw rags at one another.

* * *

**A/N:**

Fanart of The Lucky Vintage can be found on my devArt page. Just follow this link: **h.t.t.p.:././.e.r.a.-.a.g.e...d.e.v.i.a.n.t.a.r.t...c.o.m./.#./.a.r.t./.T.L.V.-.C.h.a.r.a.c.t.e.r.s.-...2.?._.s.i.d.=..0.e.4.9.** (remove excess periods)

Translations:

_Oui: _Yes


	3. Chapter Three: Paranoia

**Chapter Three: Paranoia**

* * *

_Fredas, 13__th__ of Hearthfire, 3E433._

_ It is time. I cannot delay this any longer. Almost two weeks have past, and the evidence grows by every second. I should have known from the start that she was involved with them! She is most certainly with the Marukhati. Why hadn't I noticed it sooner? She has that look about her. Behind the pleasant wine-worker, there it is: silence._

_ I do not trust silence. And yet she is not silent! Her every move betrays her motives! I know too much, heard too many things. It's why she's out to get me._

_ And it is such a pity. I always thought she was a... tolerable woman. It is most likely that Bernadette Peneles corrupted her and recruited her. A shame, really, but I must put myself before anything else! I am Cyrodiil's only chance of cleansing. Maybe I can cure this poor creature. I must cure her before she purges me from the world! Who else will give light to the secrets I've collected throughout the years?_

_ Her death will guarantee my safety._

* * *

"Fredas: worst day of the week," Ismene sighed as she hung her apron on a peg. "Why's it that everyone in the city chooses this one day to drink themselves under the table?"

"Because they do not need to rise early for work tomorrow," Bernadette said. She smiled and squeezed Ismene's arm. "Just be glad the night's over and done with. You only had to put up with Sir Lizard for a short while, too."

Ismene rolled her eyes and pulled her kerchief off. "Don't remind me, Bern." As she walked Bernadette home, Ismene couldn't help but to glance occasionally over her shoulder. Glarthir hadn't approached either of them, and the crazy Bosmer seemed to be keeping his distance. _All the better, _Ismene thought with a small sigh. It took her a moment to realize that they had already reached Bernadette's house and that her friend was leaning against the door, studying her face.

"You're exhausted," Bernadette said quietly. Ismene gave a small nod and tried to smile. "Do me a favor? Sleep a couple of extra hours tomorrow. It's not normal for us vintners to have such pale cheek_s_, given that we're out in the fields many hours of the day. And I _know _your complexion is rosy, not milk white."

"I'll try," Ismene said.

Bernadette shifted her weight to her other leg and frowned. "What is it? Do you want to come in for a moment?"

"No, no," Ismene said, shaking her hands. "It's just mother. She's been writing me constantly." When Bernadette moved her hand, as if to say 'continue,' Ismene added, "And I haven't replied to a single letter."

"Oh, Ismene," Bernadette sighed, "she's your mother."

"I know," she said. "I probably have a new letter waiting for me; no doubt she's still pestering me about marriage and grandchildren."

Bernadette smirked and folded her arms over her chest. "Well, you are her only child, Ismene, and your mother _is _a Benirus. Her family's reputation isn't as glorious as it once was, and she only wants the best for you."

"Ever the voice of reason," Ismene chuckled. "Fine. I'll write to her tonight. Good night, Bern."

"Good night, Ismene."

* * *

Mog had brewed another pot of Orsinium tea, and Ismene took a sip from her steaming mug. She ripped the Benirus seal from the parchment, not surprised that her mother used such formality even for her own family. She rolled her eyes when she heard her mother's voice in her head as she read the letter.

_Ismene,_

_ It's been almost a month since you've written me back. I understand that you are a grown woman, capable of looking after yourself. But please, Ismene dear. As a parent, I will always worry over you. A mother never stops thinking about her children, not even for a moment. I know you are occupied with your work at Tamika's winery, but please, I hope you will find the time to write me and let me know that you are alright._

_ I am doing well, by the way. The move from Anvil to the Imperial City went smoothly. The city is wonderful to me, Ismene. Your father brought you here for your seventh birthday. Do you remember? You were the happiest little girl, that day. I wish you would visit me here, but I know your days are full of hard work. I'm so proud of you, darling, even if working in a winery is not proper Benirus behavior._

_ There are many fine men here in the City. I know you are probably rolling your eyes, but darling, you should find someone to provide for you. I worry how a young woman fares in these times, and it will help put my soul at ease knowing that someone capable is caring for you. Oh, listen to me. I'm tearing up just thinking how much you've grown into a lady._

_ Please write me, darling._

_ All my love,_

_ Coretta Benirus, your mother._

Ismene sighed and idly scratched Mittens behind the ears as she put the letter down. "Oh, Mother," she breathed out, "always clucking after me, always prattling on about men. Some things will never change, will they, Mittens?" The cat meowed and rubbed her head against Ismene's hand. She smiled and turned her attention back to the parchment. "I suppose I should humor her, though." She dipped her quill in the inkwell and started writing, mindful of the tail occasionally curling against her chin.

It was well into the night when she was satisfied with her letter. Crumpled up sheets of parchment laid scattered about her desk, and Mittens wriggled on her back, tearing her claws through the paper. Ismene sighed and rubbed her eyes. "There: short, simple, and to the point. If she wants any more than that from me, she'll have to visit me in person." Elaborations were never her strong suit, at least in writing. She was a bit like her father in that sense. She stood from her chair and stretched her arms out before placing the letter on her nightstand. She'd have to remember to ask Mog to send the letter out with the next courier. She cringed when she thought of all the letters signed _Coretta Benirus _the Orc must have been receiving lately.

She dressed into her nightgown and ruffled her hair, mussing the short strands. With the candles blown out, she collapsed into her bed, her body giving a great sigh of relief when she finally gave her aching muscles a rest. Mittens sprawled herself out by the pillow, idly rubbing her face against the sheets until they both fell asleep.

And what a sound sleep they had; no dreams, no worried thoughts, no planning out the next day's agenda—_have to mail Mother's letter, need to buy more ink and parchment, pay my tab, visit Salmo, tell Mittens to stop hissing—_

Just the black and dark purples of closed eyelids—_tell Mittens to stop hissing._

Ismene's eyes flew open, and when her eyes did not adjust to the darkness of the room, even when she conjured a dull magelight from her fingertips, it took her a few moments to realize why. Something was covering her eyes. Pain erupted right where her neck met her collarbone, and her magelight flickered and died from raw panic and fear distracting her. She kicked out with her legs and felt something move on top of her, heard another hiss—_Mittens—_and grappled at her neck when she felt it being compressed. She should scream, scream at the top of her lungs for Mog, for the guards, for _anyone, _but with the fingers—_fingers—_wrapped around her throat and her chaotic thoughts, vocal cords became obsolete, useless things.

The fingers were gone and replaced with something else. Something sharp nicked at her neck, and she gasped when cool air met blood, making her entire body go rigid in fright. "You will not struggle."

She knew that voice, knew the paranoid tremors rippling through each syllable he whispered. _No, no, no, that can't be—_

_ 'Sometimes I see him staring at me from his window.'_

"You will not struggle," he said again, his hand slowly moving from her eyes. She could only make out a mad gleam in his eyes, his eyes that were darting around everywhere at once. "Don't," he warned again, moving the blade—_axe—_closer to her neck. She bit her lip and swallowed, the motion slowed by the metal biting into her skin. A breath escaped him, a chuckle that sounded far too pleased, as if he himself could not believe what he had accomplished. "You thought I wouldn't notice you," he said in a whisper-like cackle. "Oh, but I did. I have to give you some credit: it was difficult figuring you out. Oh, but I did, I did."

Ismene sank her head as far back into the pillows as she could, hoping to put distance between her neck and the axe that shone just as madly as Glarthir's eyes.

"At first, I thought you were immune to them, that you were far too strong to fall into their traps. You weren't in the city as long as them, after all," he mused, his eyes sliding away from her face to stare into a dark corner. When she tried to inch her body away from his, he slashed his gaze back to her, his lips parting to bare his teeth. "But you were one of them all along! You were just a rendezvous for them, another member to refer to! _Don't you see?" _He tangled his fingers in her hair and forced her head back, exposing her neck. "Your conspiracies don't just start and end with Skingrad. They seep all the way into The White Gold Tower itself!" He lowered his face closer to hers, and she closed her eyes when she felt and smelled his breath, disgusting and laced with something sweet—

"I-I d-don't know—"

"_Quiet!" _he hissed, angling the axe so that it opened up another cut on her skin. "Quiet," he repeated, taking a shaking breath to try and steady himself. "You Marukhati are always the same: you plot, you scheme, and then when you're caught, you try to blubber your way out. Is it guilt that compels you?" He sneered and shook his head when he heard a sob escape her mouth. "No matter, no matter! Once I'm finished with you, the others will pay! Just have to take matters into my own hands. The only way now, Glarthir, the only way._" _His words slithered into another cackle, one that made his lips twitch and teeth click together.

_ Others? _Ismene's heart froze when she comprehended his words. _The list. _He was too busy raving on about how he was the savior of Tamriel, how he would purify Cyrodiil by first cleansing Skingrad and then moving on to the other major cities, to see her gaze harden into one of fury. Fear was the least of her concerns. Bernadette's life was on the line, her most trusted friend and companion. Glarthir had hoped that the dark room would give him the advantage of fear and domination, but it only served as a cloak for her as her hand slowly crept underneath her pillow. She prayed that the Divines would bless Bernadette for convincing her to keep a knife under her pillow at all times, just in case.

_Just in case._

Her fingers brushed against something cold and sharp, and she winced when she felt metal slice through her skin. If he noticed her cringe, he chalked it up to her terror.

"Now _you _will know paranoia," he said at last, concluding his rant with a tongue wetting his lips. He shifted above her, trying to find the best position to cleave her head from her body. She gripped the hilt right when he moved his knee, and knew that someone or something out there was looking down at her right now, for they granted her one and only one chance.

Glarthir's knee moved right onto a tail that belonged to a cat that had stayed quiet for some time. She hissed and spat, making the elf gasp and fumble for his grip on the axe while the cat dug her claws through his trousers and into his legs. There was no time to think, only to act. With danger no longer posed to her neck but still very much present in the room, Ismene tightened her grip on her dagger, and lunged.

It would have helped if she held the dagger correctly and if she could see—her closed eyes weren't helping her in that respect. She gasped when she hit Glarthir, her shoulder bashing into his, her free hand gripping his tunic to keep her from falling forward, the knife missing its mark. He managed to hold onto his weapon, but with a cat tearing at his flesh and with his axe too heavy to hold upright with one hand, she was left with the advantage. She attacked again, not thinking, not breathing when she felt the knife plunge into something soft. She heard him gurgle, and when the knife met resistance, she pushed it further, feeling something warm and wet seep onto her hand.

It happened too fast, too suddenly for her to realize that the elf was already dead. She twisted the knife this way and that, tears dripping into her mouth and keeping her from opening her eyes. It wasn't until Mittens nudged her head against her side that she jerked the knife away with a jolt, her fingers tearing at Glarthir's tunic to put as much distance between herself and the madman.

She crawled backward on the bed, sending the cat and blankets to the floor in her mad rush. Her breathing became labored, staccato pants, and she shook her head at the outline of the figure at the foot of her bed. _No, no, no, no, it didn't happen, I didn't do it, it wasn't me, it didn't happen, it didn't happen. _She mouthed these words to herself like a priest pleading in prayer, and for long minutes, she sat there, gripping the knife between her hands, not noticing that the blade cut into her palms and fingers.

She would wake up, she would spend the morning about town, doing errands, and then she would work the afternoon shift. Salmo said he wanted her to help him bake a cake, and Bernadette would need to be walked home because of—

Glarthir.

Ismene clutched her hair, the heels of her hands covering her eyes. She shook her head and took in a deep breath. _I didn't do it, I didn't do it. _She was tired; it was just a nightmare after a hard day at work. The hair on the back of her neck rose when she felt someone staring at her. She looked about the room, finding Mittens's eyes the only pair. The cat blinked at her and looked away. Ismene's skin broke out into gooseflesh, and sweat began forming on her brow. Before she could stop herself, her fingers twitched and formed a magelight. It was just bright enough to illuminate most of the room, and this time, she did scream.

She threw her hand over her mouth to muffle her shriek. Another pair of eyes stared at her, a pair lifeless and still glazed with madness even in death. They were no longer flecked green, but black and—

_Cold as winter ice and shrouded in shadow._

She bit her hand, trying to not scream and to wake up from this horrible dream. She would wake up, wake up, _wake up, _WAKE UP. Something from the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she whipped her head around, her breath stopping short for a moment. It was there: black, billowing, tall. It made the temperature drop considerably, made the dark corners of the room profound and angular as shadows stretched across the ceiling, oozing like blood across the floorboards until they crept around her bed. When she blinked, the figure and the shadows were gone. She was left with the cat, herself, and a dead body. A chill set through her body, making her hands shake and spine straighten until she thought it would snap.

Dream or no dream, she could not stay in this room. Not with this suffocating air, not with Glarthir, not with the blood pouring out of his neck.

Realization dawned upon her: she could not stay in Skingrad. The guards and citizens knew who she was, knew that Ismene Fiore worked for Tamika and lived in The Two Sisters Lodge. This knowledge led to the thoughts of having to run away, of becoming a criminal. If she went to the guards, would they believe her? She wasn't a noble, they would need solid evidence of Glarthir's madness. A list of names would not prove herself innocent.

Was she innocent?

She ground her teeth together and forced herself to not even dwell on that question. Innocent or not, there was only one course of action to take. She threw her bloodied nightgown off and shrugged into her grubby clothes she reserved for tending to the fields. Her fingers fumbled over ties and laces, and not wanting to spare another moment, she let them dangle undone. She filled a small pack with whatever her hands touched, not realizing that she had packed plates, cups, a quill, and a crumpled piece of parchment.

She opened the door to her room, letting Mittens sneak past her legs and into the hallway. The cat turned to look at Ismene as the woman hurried out of the inn, stepping on squeaky floorboards and tripping on carpets all the while. Mittens blinked, fluffed her fur out with a shake of her head, and went on her way, finding a cozy corner to snooze in.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating! But summer's here, work hours are pretty reasonable this year (thank God), and the next chapter is already in the works. All feedback is appreciated :)**


	4. Chapter Four: Red As Black

**Chapter Four: Red As Black**

* * *

_"Something graceful," Ungolim said, staring at the goblet of wine he had yet to touch. "Something feminine, elegant, easily concealed, and deadly. I trust you know something of these qualities, Lachance."_

_ Lucien folded his hands beneath his chin and let a smirk play at the corner of his mouth. "Qualities that every Dark Sister should strive to have, dear Listener."_

_ "Indeed," Ungolim said, his eyes narrowing a fraction at the Speaker across from him. "The Night Mother requires you to gift such a weapon."_

_ "And the candidate? What of her kill?"_

_ Ungolim uttered a sound from the back of his throat and leaned back in his seat. "An... interesting kill. Not out of cold blood like most of them." He paused and looked Lucien in the eye, as if searching for something. "I find it amusing that the newest member of your sanctuary would lack such desires."_

_ "Is that supposed to mean something, Ungolim?" Lucien asked, his voice dipping to an octave that was bordering on threatening._

_ "That is 'Listener' to you, Lachance. And think what you want of it." He let out a breath and glanced around, as if finally noticing his surroundings. He gave the room a sorry look. "I do hate traveling to Fort Farragut." He picked up his goblet, tipping it over so that wine trickled down the side of it and stained the table. "The dust, the smell, the bonemeal peeling off of the Dark Guardians." He placed his goblet on the table once he'd poured out all of the wine, and he did not need to look at the Speaker to know that he hadn't taken his eyes off of him for a moment. "And then I remember that I am above such dwellings."_

_ "Indeed," Lucien said, a spark flashing in his eyes for a moment when Ungolim's face turned sour. "The mosquitoes and swamp fumes in Bravil must be to your standards." He tapped an index finger against the back of his hand, giving Ungolim a grin that showed no teeth._

_ "Watch that tongue, Speaker," Ungolim warned, his brows furrowing together. "The Night Mother knows treachery when she sees it, Brother, and she is _always _watching."_

_ "What are you alluding to, _Listener?" _Lucien's brow arched, and if it was anyone other than the Listener before him, he would have instilled a sense of fear in whoever dared to accuse him of betrayal._

_ "Nothing at all, dear Brother," Ungolim said, rising from his seat. "You have your orders, Lachance. See to it that they are carried out immediately. The Night Mother stressed that time is of the essence."_

_ "As our Unholy Matron wishes. Listener." Lucien inclined his head and watched Ungolim make his way toward the rope-ladder._

_The Bosmer paused to run a finger over the Speaker's alchemy table, sniffing at the dust he had collected. "You should find yourself a new Silencer, Lachance. The place is getting awfully drab." He uttered a chuckle, not needing to look at the Speaker to know that he wore a murderous expression. Without another word, he climbed up through the trapdoor._

_Lucien was the last one smirking when he heard Shadowmere neigh an ungodly roar at the Wood Elf._

* * *

_Grace, _Lucien thought as he surveyed the body of the dead Bosmer, _is something to be desired. _He moved the victim's head to have a better look at the gash in his neck. _A sloppy kill. Not feminine or elegant in the least. _He sniffed and let the body fall limply back onto the bed. The sheets were stained red, blood was splattered on the floor, and the tables and chairs were toppled over. Whoever the killer was, she was in a rush to vacate the premises.

He searched the body, finding a sizable purse that was left behind. She did not want his money, then. Still, Lucien pocketed the purse and gave the room another examination. On the nightstand was a letter, sealed and by the looks of it, ready to be delivered. Careful not to trail any blood, he approached the nightstand and pried the seal away, confident that the Brotherhood could forge a new letter if need be.

_Mother,_

_ I am doing well, as I always am. I hope you are, too. If I find time, I'll schedule a trip to the Imperial City. Maybe I'll make a delivery of wine there one day and visit you._

_ Please, Mother, I am not interested in marrying or having children at the moment. Please do not go hunting down suitors for me._

_ I hope the City continues to treat you well._

_ Love,_

_ Ismene_

_ P.S. Why do you sign your letters 'Coretta Benirus'? Just sign them as 'Mother.'_

He shook his head, a satisfied smile creeping on his lips, and tucked the letter away into his robes; it'd be a shame if the woman's mother didn't receive her letter. His hand brushed against the blade safely hidden away, and his smile faltered. The last woman he gave this blade to had proven herself a great asset to the Brotherhood, climbing her way through the ranks all the way to Silencer. Silencing, she did well, and he had always found something admirable in the way she sent souls to the Void. But alas, the recent string of murders had added her to the chain, leaving not even a body behind.

All that was left was the blade he'd given her, and now he was to pass it on to another whelp, an 'Ismene' that could not even cover her own tracks. It was almost laughable—_almost. _Even if he thought Ungolim a cowardly little _rat, _he still had faith in The Night Mother's judgment. Nay, She was what he poured all of his faith in. Shaking his head, he readjusted the body, making it appear to be sleeping in bed. It wouldn't do for the guards to track this 'Ismene' down so easily; he needed her alive, after all. Best to give them something to think about, something to deviate their minds from foolish 'Ismene.'

Satisfied with his work, he crept out of the room, his footfalls silent and step sure. Only his robes made sound as they brushed against the wooden floor. Finding the woman wouldn't be difficult. He had an inkling as to where she was headed, and evidence of his hunch was stashed safely in his robes. No; he knew just where to find her.

* * *

She had wanted to cleanse herself of this nightmare, this horrible, horrible dream, the blood on her hands—_the blood on her hands. _She wanted it _gone. _No matter how many times she blinked, no matter how hard she pinched her hand, she still felt awake. She could still feel her body, could still see those eyes staring at her, lifeless and still crazed even in death. This would not do.

She had wanted to cleanse herself. If the rain pouring down on her with the wrath of the Aedra—for surely she had displeased them with murdering someone—could not purify her, then nothing could. No. It was done. Purification was not an option available, but what was she to do? Justice would be turning herself in, but she would be damned if she landed herself in prison. She knew what the guards did to the female prisoners; she had heard all about those terrors from Fagus and Nigidius when they served their time. Her pride—another folly she had inherited from her late father—prevented her from choosing that path. That was _not _an option.

_It was him or Bernadette, it was him or Bernadette. _She swallowed, idly wiping the rain from her face as she lost herself in a daze. _It was him or me. I chose me. _The thought was a terrifying one—how close had she come to death! How easy it would have been to let him behead her. There would be no guilty thoughts, no horror toward her actions. She was a killer, a murderer.

_It was self defense! It was, it was, _IT WAS! She repeated this to herself, a wordless mantra that she prayed would earn her forgiveness. Not just from the Nine Divines, but from herself, as well.

She could not help but to feel that something _somewhere _was... pleased with what she had done. She could not wrap her mind around this. No Aedra would praise a murderer, and no Daedra would waste their time on such a petty killing. _She could still feel his body trapping hers, could still smell his breath, could still hear his cackles._

_ Do. Not. Think. _She readjusted her grip on her pack, her fingers digging into the leather straps as if they would anchor her to sanity, or what was left of it. More than she could count, she had tripped over a jutting cobble and had fallen forward. The scrapes did nothing to ease her mind; she was numb to them. There was so much _blood. _On him, on her, on the sheets, on the cobbles—

She sobbed, choking on some rain that had found its way into her mouth. She spat and flung her hair out of her face. She would find solace somehow. She would go to the City, tell her mother _everything. _Coretta, though she tried her hardest to regain her noble bearing, was an understanding, kind woman. She would help. All Ismene had to do was tell her the truth—

_No. _She closed her eyes, her lips trembling as her feet still guided her. All roads led to the City, but she knew hers would not. If she told her mother, her only family left besides her idiot cousin Velwyn, if she lost her...

_No. _She could not forsake that, not the last person she had. _Never. _She would stray from the City, maybe take up residence in Chorrol. She had made deliveries there before and knew that the city was beautiful. It was close enough to the City so that her mother would still receive correspondence from her, but she could never see her again.

Ismene was not a subtle person. The sobs tearing through her lungs were testimony to that, and her pack filled with silverware clanking about was even more so. If she could not see her mother, she could never write to her. The temptation, the _pain, _would be too great. She couldn't, she couldn't, she _couldn't—_

Her feet led her off of The Gold Road and into the forest. She fell to her knees, her pack landing with a loud thud beside her, and gripped her arms. She felt as if her fingers would tear through her clothes and skin, but she could not uncurl them from herself. She tucked her chin into her chest, letting the tears and rain stream down her face. It was not _just. _She had not asked for this; Glarthir had assaulted her, and she had no choice but to save herself.

But the world was not black and white, a harsh truth that was slowly worming its way into her brain. She was beginning to understand cruelty. White was too good to be true, too pure to behold, too innocent to have. Innocence had no place in this world. Black, black was...

Under the cover of complete darkness, she could lose herself to her wails, could let her nails rake into her upper arms and claw at the marks Glarthir had left on her neck. She could grieve over what injustice had been wrought upon her.

Under the cover of complete darkness, unspeakable monsters could lurk and prowl as they pleased, finding prey to feast upon, or flesh to sink their fangs into. She never heard them, never heard the telltale twinkle of magicka. She felt its full effects as the spell hit her with little restraint, and she toppled over, her body weightless and unmoving. Something dug into her side—a boot—and rolled her over onto her back. She stared up, her vision swimming, trying to open her mouth to scream. Whatever spell they had used on her—_something that drained her of all energy—_was potent. She could only blink, her mouth going dry when two pairs of red eyes stared down at her.

* * *

"But I'm _full. _Are you telling me you found us dinner when we already fed for tonight?"

"We can use her for tomorrow night. We've skipped meals long enough now, haven't we? We deserve to dine as the Count does!"

"But I'm _full _already—"

"Quiet! She's awaken."

Ismene turned her head to the side. Her neck felt like tree bark, and every muscle in her body was like limp jelly as she tried to move her limbs. She managed to wiggle her fingers and toes, but that was all. Groaning, she blinked once, twice, thrice, before her vision cleared.

If she had been in a nightmare before, then she must have been in Oblivion, now. Burning bodies strung to the ceiling, rotting corpses strewn about, pools of blood deep enough to splash through. She screamed, the sound cut short when a hand clamped over her mouth.

"Oh, she's a _live _one. I like that."

"We tend to enjoy anything that is alive." Red eyes stared into her green ones. Lips parted, revealing fangs tinged with red from a recent feeding. "Hello, there, dearie," the man cackled. Her pupils were the size of quill tips, and her body shook as if someone had cast a spell on her. He dipped his head down, his nose brushing against her ear and then neck. She froze when he inhaled, holding the scent in his nostrils for a moment, and then exhaled with a shudder.

She wished that whatever Aedra she had insulted would kill her already, for she remembered the blood on her neck and knew that the vampire could smell it.

"What a lovely smell," the vampire whispered, nuzzling her neck again. It was too perverse, too warped of what a man would do to his lover, and she could not fight the sob that coughed its way up. He chuckled, his breath feeling like ants crawling on her. "And what lovely skin. A pity it will be mangled by tomorrow night. Don't worry, my little doe," he said when he met her terrified gaze. She felt like a doe, a doe staring down its hunter ready to release an arrow with deadly accuracy. "You won't feel a thing. It'll be quiet, soft, fading. You won't even realize you're dead."

He opened his mouth, showing his fangs again, and threw his head back in a cackle when she closed her eyes. Glarthir's death had not been quiet, soft, or fading. It was bloody, messy, _mangled. _Her neck would soon be like his: a great maw from which blood would spill. "N-no," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

"No? _Ohohoho! _How _cute, _my little doe." He clenched her jaw in one hand, tilting her chin up. "How pink those lips are, how full of life. I cannot wait until they're grey and dead," he growled, smelling her exposed throat.

"Excuse me," someone else said from the side. From the tone of voice, it was a woman. "I thought you said we'd feed on her tomorrow?"

"That is correct," the man said. He smelled Ismene's neck again, his entire body quivering with excitement. "It does not hurt to have a little sample though, no?"

"Oh _no," _the woman huffed, marching over to him. She jabbed him in the chest with a finger. "If I have to wait, so do you. Do you _hear _her heart beating? My goodness, it's running a marathon!"

"Of _course _I can hear it. It's driving me _mad! _Surely a small lick wouldn't hurt? Just a taste?"

"You bloody hypocrite! You move from there right now, and let _me _smell!" The female vampire pushed her partner aside, taking his place beside the slab they'd so crudely bound Ismene to. She leaned over the human, taking in gulp after gulp of air.

"That's enough out of you," the man hissed, grabbing his friend and shoving her aside. "I was the one who spelled her! I deserve the first bite!"

"I'm the one who told you to spell her, you dolt! If those fangs touch her skin, I'll roast your hide!" She shoved him right back, igniting the inevitable fight between them. They hissed at one another, clutching clothing and hair, yanking this way and that. Their squabble made them drift away from the altar, away from Ismene, and their captive was soon forgotten as they threw punches and clawed at each other.

The Divines could pummel sinners with their wrath, she knew, but this was a chance not even a Divine could keep her from taking. It was a slim chance, but she would not waste it. Mustering whatever courage she had, she concentrated on the bindings wrapped around her wrists and ankles. She had dabbled into magicka before, knew some basic spells. Fire was easy to conjure—she had often lit the candles in her room with her mind—but right then, when her magicka would not trickle to her fingertips, she could have screamed in frustration.

She must have made a sound, for the vampires stopped their struggle for a moment to glance her way, but after finding nothing worth looking into, they continued with their struggle, flinging words and spells at the other. She could feel the magicka in the air from their casting, could smell the familiar scent of sugar and metal that only magic possessed. She closed her eyes, the veins in her forehead and temples bulging as she focused her power into her fingers.

The fire was small and uncontrolled; it licked at her skin, forming welts on her palms and wrists, but it ate through the bindings enough for her to pull out of them. She scrambled to untie her ankles, her fingers fumbling as she kept her eyes on the vampires. They hadn't noticed her sitting up on the altar, and they hadn't noticed when her fingers gave the final tug to the ropes. She hurried to her feet, her legs wobbly and feeling like bricks. She did her best to keep quiet, not wanting to alert the vampires as she tiptoed through the blood, not wanting to cause even the smallest of ripples. With a few torches placed here and there about the room, the lighting was dim and shadows were abundant. She kept to them, willing the darkness to cloak her and keep her from these predators.

From the back of her mind, she swore that the darkness nearly felt tangible.

She moved slowly, hands groping along the walls to find a door, a corridor, _anything _that might lead to the way out of this hellhole. The vampires' shrieks were fading, and the silence that dawned upon her gave her hope that she would soon escape. The ruin was small and cramped; narrow passageways snaked into one another, and soon, she found herself back at the altar. She had gone in a circle.

Sweat beaded on her brow when she peeked into the room and didn't find the vampires there. The room was empty, save for the dead bodies and blood. The sight made her knees buckle, and if she wasn't holding onto the craggy wall, she would have met the ground face first. Her heart was beating as if for two people, and her breath began coming out as pants.

She almost didn't feel the breath tickling the back of her neck.


End file.
